Page 88 of If Not for My Baby
“Hold on,” I say. “BlueorBoth Sides Now?”
Wren tongues her toothpick into the other side of her mouth. With those wide cheekbones and slender nose, she and Joni could be sisters. “Am I horny or sad?”
“Both,” Molly says. “Always both.”
Wren nods. “Blue, then. Clementine?”
I weigh the question, but truthfully I had my three picked out the minute Grayson posed the question.
“Fleetwood Mac’sRumours, the Original Broadway Cast Recording ofWest Side Story, and—”
But I cut myself off before I can admit the truth:Kingfisherhas become my favorite album. The gothic melodies, soulful choirs, massive guitar riffs…Tom’s music isn’t just beautiful and playable and catchy. It makes me feel something there are no words for. It floods my chest, not just my ears. After listening to and belting these songs every night for weeks, I couldn’t imagine my life without them. And maybe, just like Indy and her parents’ Moby obsession, I’d want tobring Tom’s voice to the island with me. Something to remind me of this time in my life. And of him.
But suddenly it feels far too intimate to share that with the group. “—andGolden Hour, Kacey Musgraves.”
“Damn,” Indy says. “That’s a great one. I’m swimming to your island.”
A deep rumble of a laugh sounds behind me, and I turn to find Tom making himself a cup of tea. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, pink indents visible where they’ve been pressed into his face in thought. Ink smudged into his fingers. He’s been writing music.
“Three albums you’d bring with you stranded on a desert island,” I tell him. “Go.”
“That’s a tough one,” Tom says as he tips his kettle. “I’ll need a think.”
My brows lift. He never entertains our post-show hangouts. Barry’s tea bag sufficiently dunked into the steaming cup, Tom shocks me again when he walks over and takes a seat beside me, crossing an ankle over his knee. Molly disentangles from Pete’s grasp, Indy sits up, and Wren takes out her toothpick.
Though I’m distracted by where our thighs now touch, I don’t miss the sneer Grayson makes at our proximity. He wasn’t too thrilled to hear we were seeing each other. During our show in Cleveland, Tom squeezed my hand at the end of “If Not for My Baby,” and some fan page picked up a clip of it. It died down quickly—chalked up to a touring band that’s close like family—but Grayson made sure to bring it up for the next three days, each joke less funny than the last.
“I Put a Spell on Youby Nina Simone and Johnny Cash’sAt Folsom Prisonare both absolute stunners,” Tom says.
Wren nods her agreement, as does Molly. Both albums are so innately Tom. I’m jealous of how well he knows himself: the high priestess of soul and Cash’s roughed-up stomp-rock country have both snuck their way into nearly all of his songs.
“And Van Morrison,Astral Weeks. That’s a fine aul’ record.”
“My parents loved that one, too,” Indy says.
“Or U2’sJoshua Tree!” calls Conor from his bunk.
Their Irish pride brings a smirk to my cheeks. “I thought you were trying to sleep!”
“How can I with you lot playing feckin’ parlor games until the sun rises!”
I grin and turn back to the group. “Molly?”
“Fuck the desert island,” she says. “I’ll sink to the ocean floor with the rest of the ship.”
“Don’t say that,” Pete says. “I hate when you say shit like that.”
“I’d be a wicked surprise for the divers searching for the wreck.” Molly lays herself elegantly across Pete’s lap, her dark hair spilling over his jeans, and crosses her arms like a mummy. “A ghoulish mermaid skeleton babe.”
Wren approves. “Sick.”
Grayson, not so much. “Can’t you ever just answer the question?”
Molly stares daggers at him, but sits up as she says, “Folklore,Midnights,Reputation.”
“Oh, come on,” Grayson whines.
“Yes!” Indy teems with delight. “Those aresoyou, Molls.”
